


The Aftermath

by Shmallo



Series: Dream SMP Oneshots [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Loss, Other, Post-War, l'manburg, post dream and tommy's duel, yeah he's dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:47:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26315161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shmallo/pseuds/Shmallo
Summary: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nineTen.When the shots have been fired, when all is said and done, there is nothing left but history to make peace with.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: Dream SMP Oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033416
Comments: 10
Kudos: 94





	1. Dying Is Easy

They are seated at the table.

Civil, sullen, fingers intertwined for fear of what they might do, grief swallowed by anger swallowed by a mask of sharp pleasantries. They offer iced water. He takes a sip.

Divided, they sit together, tyrants in a patchwork sea of sweatshirts, rebels in crisp uniform. No one speaks. He clears his throat and sits up straighter, back pressed against rigid wood. Drumming the rhythm on the arm, brush a hand through tousled hair, count to ten and try not to cringe at the echo of bloodstains. The seat to his right empty.

The enemy stares back at him from across the table, eyes shielded by white porcelain. He hopes that they hold some ounce of remorse.

"He was just a child."

"He started it." A manic laugh threatens to curl poisonously across his lips. _As good_ _a man as you._

"You shot him. Right between the ribs."

"He was going to shoot me." No waver in his voice, but both of their grips tighten. The rebel's hands are unclasped, unrestrained they hover on the trigger. He can feel the enemy's hackles rise, all of them, and as his dark gaze sweeps the room he places his left hand on the table. _At ease._ They must comply.

"We both knew he meant no harm. Could do no harm."

"It was him who challenged."

"It was you who killed! The blood is on your hands, brighter than the innocence that he took with him."

It is the enemy's turn to ask a question. "What would you have me do? Turn back time? His name has been claimed by history, it cannot be taken back. Unless you would prefer to join him? I can easily arrange that." The sword glints wickedly on the table.

Suddenly, he's on his feet. His left hand is still on the table, his men do not stand. His right hand cocks a pistol. "Do you have any shred of respect left? A beating heart somewhere in your chest? Or is he just one more death to your name?" Tears sting his eyes, hot, burning, righteous. The enemy is still. His posse mimics.

"What would you have me do?" he repeats just as calmly.

"Die."

He pulls the trigger.

.  
.  
.  
.

The porcelain shatters, leaving his face unmarred. For the first time, startling green eyes meet tortured brown across the tabletop, as the rebel collapses, the fire burning out.

The room is quiet. There is no too-loud laugh, no vulgar comment. They do not speak, just listen to the weeping that echoes across the room. The absence hangs heavy in the air.

"I'm sorry, Wilbur, I really am." There is something like pity in his eyes. No. Empathy?

"Words do nothing. They don't win wars, they can't bring back the dead. We both know that." He wipes his nose on his sleeve, dabbing the tears away. "He fought so hard, believed so hard. Never can I say I had a better right-hand man. I know what I want from you, Dream. I want what he died for."

Out of his pocket, he slides two disks across to the other side.

"No. More."

"No more were taken. We have given you everything."

"We do not have everything."

A book is passed to Dream, each hand brushing over its worn cover. The original, four signatures in black, one traitorous glance through tinted glasses before their leader had it in his hands. Red ink, a quill, and a look of contempt on his face as he signed away his control over them. Slowly, it is passed back.

There is no cheering. Only mourning the signature that he wrote across.

"Go. We don't want you on our lands."

As he passed by Wilbur, he swore he heard a whisper faint in his ear. _'You carry your history as a burden. Be sure not to let it repeat.'_

When the room is free of foreigners, of traitor and liars and soldiers, there is the chink of silver on glass.

"A toast. To our independence, to our victory." Is this victory? His tips his drink to the sky. "A toast to the man who fought and died for it. May he live on forevermore."

_Raise a glass to freedom._


	2. Living is harder

The sky is dark. Dream storms with roiling clouds in his chest, peals of thunder in his stride, lightning crackling in his eyes. Twelve days. The sunset thirsts to paint the horizon in blood.

The table is a distant memory, some shade of forgotten, denial, disgust. Disgraced by his actions, disregarding the nobility, pretending that the guilt that sits as a stone in his chest is just a mask. Porcelain still sits shattered on the bed. The fundamental price he had to pay. He'd like a refund.

There are three in the chamber, standing to attention. A map is on the bench, intersecting lines all spiralling towards a dark mark in the middle. Scowl, clench jaw, place the four pieces on the chessboard. Don't hesitate to make the first move. Hesitation means death. _The river is stained with blood._

"Why are we here?"

George's face is hollow, pale, he can almost see his pupils darting around frantically behind blocky glasses. "You're going back for more."

It's a statement; he knows him too well to question. Dream doesn't acknowledge the defeat, the knowing he will be the second into the fray, nor the unspoken disgust. _He was just a child._ The voice of his friend, his enemy, chorus as he buries them deep inside.

"If we attack from the west, at dawn, we can-"

It is Eret that dares interrupt him.

"The war is over. He's dead, isn't that enough?"

"Enough?" _No, he didn't feel empathy. No, the words didn't twist that ugly feeling in his gut._ "They walk free, to strike against us, to tear us down! I will show them no mercy, and neither will you, unless you want to join your 'friends' in their fate."

His mouth is slammed shut.

"Good. If there are no more objections, we have a war to plan."

The light fades slowly as he rambles on, deep into the night. One by one, they leave him to his plans worry in their eyes, helplessness in their hearts. When he finally runs out of breath, there is only one other remaining. His eyes are hidden, but his body droops with defeat, and Dream knows his stare bores deep into him. 

"You don't need to do this."

"What would you know?"

"I know _you!_ You don't want to do this either, I can see it in your eyes. You'll break if continue, can't you already see the damage?"

"The only losses have been theirs."

"Have they?" When there was no reply, he straightens. "You can't win this time, Dream."

"Watch me," he hisses, and the deal is sealed. George walks out of the room with a sad smile, and for a moment, just a blink, he swears he sees the pale face of a dead boy beside him. The door closes, the illusion shatters, and malice simmers away into the night.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, clenching the side of the map, hardly realising his frozen, fuming state through the hundreds of bloodstained plans. At some point, he feels a hand on his shoulder, steering him to his bedroom, pushing him down. There is a blanket draped over his despondent form. He whispers on his way out.

"I'm going, Dream. I will not help you." He is still trapped in his own mind. Broken porcelain pieces brush against his skin, get tangled in his hair.

"Goodbye."

George is not there in the morning.

When Dream awakes, there is a figure by his side, translucent, pale. He says nothing, only stares, a silence so eerie to his identity that it cools even the ice-coated heart, sends a shiver that shakes its core. He hides the tremor.

They are standing outside his door. One by one they hand him a letter, resignation, withdrawal, and speak solemn words that seems so distant. Even neutrality is left in the empty room, he has no words left to say. Suddenly, the ghost by his side is awfully talkative.

"He was just a child."

"It was you who killed."

"Do you have even a shred of respect?"

Foreign words, not his, never his, but they hurt just the same.

"You can't win this time."

That is the one that cuts deepest. Dream knows it. He knows it. He glows just the brighter for it.

It reminds him of the enemy. They had no weapons, no armour, just their words to fight with. Easy to crush. _Helpless._

He shakes it away, like the water off a dead boy's corpse, stalking down the silent hallways. The ghost follows him relentlessly, watching, waiting, as the walls crumble beneath a titan's fist. George's voice is parroted from the pretender. It winds the clockwork in his chest tighter. _Tick, tick, tick._

Time's up.

Pistol shot. He does not aim for the heart, the bullet roars through his head. He is unfazed. The mirror behind shatters.

"You can't win this time."

He stares at his broken reflection. Crazed, dark, no mask to hide behind. He sees villain. And he cries.

History's brushstrokes are heavy.

_It paints me, and all my mistakes._


End file.
